Reconstruction
by The Counter-Point Man
Summary: In the wake of the Russian invasion of the United States, Private Ramirez is left wondering . . . how will they rebuild? Spoilers for MW2. Rated T. Read and Review, please.


_This takes place about a week and a half after the events of Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 2. As it isn't really focused on the combat itself, as it is the aftermath of combat. I wanted to write soemthing that didn't just show the Rangers as American killing machines, but as human beings. Something that readers can relate to. My plan for this is for it to be at least a three parter, but don't be surprised_ _if I end up adding_ _more. This story,_ _**Reconstruction**, is about the aftermath of the Russian invasion of Washington, DC, and how the Americans will adapt to picking up the pieces again after an inconceivable event._

**The Fictlizuh presents . . .**

**Reconstruction**

* * *

The sun hadn't risen over Washington DC, as it hadn't for the prior three days. All that emerged over the horizon was a sea of smoky grey, with pockets of a slightly lighter hue that only gave way to a constant downpour of icy rain showers. _Unseasonably_ icy rain, in the opinion of James Ramirez, a Private of the 1st Battalion 75th Army Ranger Regiment. Having grown up around the DC area, he knew that the summers were sweltering, rain coming only in short bursts of thunderstorms. But after whatever happened . . . happened, the sky seemed to swallow itself up, blocking out most of the sunlight and putting the nations' capital into perpetual darkness. Rain mixed with ash and debris, making it sour to the taste. The only viable source of clean water was from bottles and canteens, and judging by their current predicament, would only last until the end of the week. Probably less.

Sitting on the front stoop of a derelict residential apartment, Ramirez lit up a cigarette from a pack he had scrounged from a fellow infantryman. He had never been an avid smoker before joining the army, but people – with most of everything else – can change drastically. Besides, it wasn't like inhaling smoke was unfamiliar to him; nearly the entire campaign and defense of the homeland had been busting down one blazing building to another. Pocketing his cheap plastic lighter, Ramirez looked on absentmindedly as a military humvee rounded the corner, a snowplow crudely mounted upon its' front bumper. The jeep slowed, the plow pushing away some fallen debris that lay strewn across the road. At the opposite end of the street, a pile of rubble and street trash was heaped over the remnants of another apartment, completely demolished in the Russian invasion. The plow dumped its' load into the massive mound and turned onto the next street.

"Ramirez? That you?"

Ramirez flicked the ashes out of his cigarette over the side of the stoop when Corporal Jacob Dunn climbed the steps of the porch to meet him at a sitting position.

The Private nodded in greeting, giving Corporal Dunn a high five as well. "What's up, man? You get that shoulder patched up?"

Dunn nodded, rotating his wounded shoulder stiffly. "Yeah. Still hurts like a son-of-a-bitch, but that's what these are for," Dunn pulled a small orange bottle from his breast pocket and rattled it in his comrades' face.

"Any side effects?" Ramirez received a shrug from Dunn.

"None that I know of . . . yet," The two soldiers chuckled amongst themselves. Most of the drugs from the military were known to be highly addictive with a slew of uncomfortable side effects. "If I start losing hair and turning blue, I'll let you know."

As their laughter died, Dunn immediately sought to change the subject at hand. "Hey, you got a light?"

Private Ramirez nodded, reaching for his lighter and cigarettes again and handing them to Dunn. The lighter sparked an orange flame, flickering in the light but steady rain that soaked the bombed neighborhood to a soggy appearance.

"Any idea on where Sergeant Foley's at?" pondered Ramirez, watching another convoy of jeeps pass by. The vehicles were all fully armored, soldiers behind their mounted machine guns at the ready. Even though the unreality of the situation wasn't hard to set in, they had to remember: Washington was still as much of a warzone as the rest of the east coast of the United States.

"Beats the hell outta me," Dunn replied out of the corner of his mouth, his cigarette flaring up with each breath. "Probably down in some bunker, filling out the paperwork for all the stuff we blew up."

"Damn. Poor bastard's gotta be suffering down there." Dunn shrugged in agreement, crushing the butt of his cigarette into the stair between his feet. The remaining ashes glowed brightly before fading away, a tail of bluish-grey smoke swirling in a serpentine in the wind.

After a drawn out pause, Dunn rose to his feet. "What say we go spring the Sarge loose?" he offered up to Ramirez, extending a hand for him to rise as well.

The Private took his hand, stiffly descending down the porch steps and onto the now forsaken streets of Washington DC.

Passing the ever growing pile of garbage atop its' bombed out perch, the two soldiers wandered through the expanse of scorched sidewalks and destroyed houses until they came across a Stryker troop transport, sidled against the curb while a squad of infantrymen entered through the back hatch.

Dunn approached the armed soldier in the back, a 2nd Lieutenant, and briefly saluted. "You mind making some space, sir?"

The Lieutenant nodded, shuffling back enough so both Dunn and Ramirez could pile in. A Private across from Ramirez was the first to speak up.

"Where're you two headin'?" he asked in an obvious southern drawl.

"We just came from the residential area," answered Ramirez, not looking the Private in the eye. He, like the rest of the squad in the Stryker, was fully armed and covered in soot, likely from patrolling the heavily shelled areas of the city or possible demolitions work. "We're going to Battalion HQ, wherever that may be."

"Then it's your lucky day," the Private replied, loosening his combat goggles off his blackened face. "That's just where we're goin', for debriefing and a nice, hot shower." The squad chuckled silently at the last statement.

"What?" the soldier questioned, oblivious to the fact that running water by itself was scarce and far between now, much less _hot_ water.

The troop transport roved over the debris covered streets, bumping the soldiers inside against each other like a roller coaster. One soldier pulled out silver lighter out of his pocket, but it was soon slapped away by the stern Lieutenant.

As the weary infantrymen conversed amongst themselves, the transport rocked over a muddy flow of destroyed cars and raw sewage, the main that lay under the street likely burst during the initial bombings and invasion. The smell was awful. It seemed to seep through the thick armor plating of the troop transport, riding along in the unnaturally cool breeze through any exposed crack in its hull into the cramped cabin. One could say the odor was hot sick, mixed with raw fish and dog feces. Or at least that's what Corporal Dunn's observation was as the Stryker rolled down onto a smoother, steady surface.

"Like a damn cesspool," he said, popping a pain pill into his mouth as he shifted in his seat. "No way in hell they'll be able to get rid of all that stink."

The Stryker lurched to a halt, the hatch lowering onto the ground as a ramp for the squad inside. Private Ramirez studied his surroundings with awe as he gazed up at the Smithsonian Castle, the famous museum and institution, now converted into an impromptu battalion command post. Dunn and Ramirez were met by a pair of MPs.

"Identification." They ordered nearly simultaneously.

The two infantrymen flashed their IDs, which were scanned by a futuristic-looking handheld device and they were quickly sent on their way.

"Didn't even say please," muttered Dunn with an air of sarcasm, tucking his card away beneath his uniform.

* * *

Into the grand foyer of the Smithsonian the two went, bustling with not tourists and history buffs, but military officers and armed men marching the corridors with a mechanical demeanor. Within the museum itself, where rows upon rows of displays and priceless artifacts once lay, was now a starved skeleton of its' former glory. A gaping maw stretched through part of the cathedral-like ceiling, like a great cavity for the rain to center in on and splash down onto the expertly waxed floors. A small ways down the same hallway, a large bone setup of a Tyrannosaurus Rex lay sprawled over the display it once proudly loomed over. Ramirez cringed at the total gloominess of the place, but he supposed they were lucky; besides the lobby and top floors of the castle, most of the remaining treasures kept deep in the vaults below were seemingly unharmed by the invasion. Ramirez was taken out of his reverie by Dunn giving him a nudge on the shoulder, waving him over toward the stairway downward. Remembering that elevator service was knocked out by the EMP blast, the Private ducked down into the concrete stairway, spiraling down into the lower reaches of the Smithsonian Castle.

* * *

The immense stack of papers was set down upon the desk with an audible slam as Sergeant Sean Foley rested his chin in one hand while drumming on the wooden desk with the other. _First Sergeant_ , or so Private Robert "Bobby Lee" Zimmer could obviously notice by the added marks to his rank. Since the defense and retaking of Whiskey Hotel (aka the White House), the 75th Rangers were tremendously rewarded, along with the rest of the armed forces that played a part in the critical battle. Private Zimmer, however, had only graduated from basic training in some Midwestern valley shack less than a month ago, and has worked as 1st Sergeant Foley's assistance ever since.

"What is it, Private?" stated Foley, an eyebrow raised at the Nebraskan, who was standing at a lazy attention in front of him.

Bobby Lee snapped straight. "Sir, we got two GIs who say they know you, sir."

Foley rolled his eyes. "You think you can be a bit more . . . specific, Zimmer?" Zimmer paused, then nodded.

"Well, sir . . . one was a Private, and the other . . . I think the other was a Corporal, sir."

Before Sergeant Foley could snap back at Zimmer, he calmed suddenly, and what looked like a . . . smile appeared on his face.

"Send them in."

* * *

Ramirez and Dunn were led by fresh-faced Private into the room, what was once a complex file repository that was converted into the heart of battalion command, the place where every company in the 75th would report for duty orders. At the very end of the dimly-lit annex was Sergeant Foley himself, their squad leader and support through the entire defense effort. As Ramirez look in awe, Corporal Dunn already snapped a salute to their commanding officer, heels together like a tin soldier or a Christmas tree decoration. Before Ramirez could follow suit, however, Foley nodded at them, official attention unneeded at the moment.

"Well, well," said Sergeant Foley, clapping both the soldiers on the backs with a firm hand, causing Ramirez to let out an involuntary cough. "What brings you two down to this pit?"

"Saving your ass, as a matter of fact." Dunn replied smoothly. Ramirez cleared his throat and nodded. Not saved by Russians, but by the evil scourge of official military paperwork. To him, it was quite surreal to see his comrade in combat and leader from the start of the invasion sitting at a desk, filling out papers with a pen, instead of gunning down ruthless invaders with a carbine.

"Well, you two are out of luck. I'm waist deep in the shit, and it doesn't look like I'll . . ." Sergeant Foley trailed off in silent despair as Zimmer brought in another stack of papers. ". . . Yeah, doesn't look like I'll be out of it anytime soon."

"In fact, I may have the perfect job for you two," Foley strode over to his desk, rifling through the drawer until his pulled out a manila folder, stamped with the CIA logo and labeled "Classified" in thick red ink. "I need you to get this file up to Intelligence Command by 0:400. They're stationed up in Congress. No peeking."

Dunn snatched the folder away, tempted but steadfast against the urge to tear it open and read its contents. "What is this? An office job?" he questioned, still friendly but with a cloud of frustration looming in the distance.

"Well, they were supposed to send one of theirs down here, but that was over a half an hour ago, so I don't think he'll be showing up." Foley sat back down, clicking his pen up and onto the paper.

"Yeah, but sir, with all due respect . . ." Dunn began, Ramirez bracing himself for an explosion waiting to happen. ". . . we're two active duty GIs. We don't file papers and deliver folders, we kick ass and take names."

The 1st Sergeant sighed and continued his paperwork. "Not anymore. Colonel Marshall's opted for the 75th to take clean up duty and civil affairs. For now, we'll be here in DC for awhile."

At this, Dunn fully lost his temper. "Clean up duty? Civil Affairs? We're fuckin' Army Rangers, dammit! We should be right on the front lines right now!"

"What you should be doing is following orders, Corporal!" Foley shouted, his deep voice booming over the quaint library. "Now, get that file up to Intelligence pronto. Dismissed."

Dunn gave his Sergeant a dirty look the gripped the folder tighter. "Ho-_fuckin'_-aah." And with that, the two left Foley's quarters off into the ghostly quietness of Washington DC once more.

* * *

"Can you believe that? Can you fucking _believe_ that? We're Rangers, for Christ's sakes! 'Rangers lead the way'! What happened to that? What happened to The Creed?"

Dunn ranted on about the apparent unfairness of Colonel Marshall's decision and 1st Sergeant Foley's unpatriotic behavior, until Ramirez grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him firmly.

"Dunn, look, if you're so pissed at Marshall and the Sarge for what they've done, you might as well hand in your resignation letter and go home. If the guy behind the desk says to do something, then God damn it, we do it."

Ramirez stared down Dunn for what seemed like hours, but only lasted a minute and a half before the Corporal took a breath and exhaled, lurching away from his comrade's grip.

"Yeah . . . yeah, sorry, man . . ." he murmured, running a hand through his tight but messy military haircut. ". . . I think it's this damned weather that's gettin' to me . . . yeah, yeah, the weather."

Ramirez solemnly nodded, leering up at the grey skies as the rain seemed to be on a continuous downfall.

"Let's get that to the IC. Whatever it is, it's probably important."

* * *

_Please leave a contructive review. I'd highly appreciate it._


End file.
